August 4 to September 9, 2020

Iceland’s extreme northwest stretches to the Hornstrandir Nature Reserve, one of Europe’s last wildernesses.

Although it is a part of the mainland, there are no roads to get there. The ferry season is short. Visitors are only allowed in summer. Most go there for multi-day, self-sufficient hikes and bare-bones camping, getting dropped in one port and picked up in another. (The difficulty of the terrain and weather are stressed for anyone considering the adventure.) The others, likely descendants of the year-round residents who left in the early 1950’s, vacation in the homes that remain scattered throughout the reserve. There are no shops.

Fortunately, the “Old Doctor’s House” a short walk from the port in the tiny village of Hesteyri, offered a third option. The downstairs was a café and upstairs, in shared rooms, were simple accommodations of beds with linens. I called ahead, was assured there would be a bed available, and left from Isafjordur on a small, sturdy boat with a handful of travelers—most equipped with large backpacks and hiking poles—and a few dogs. The rugged crew of two looked like father and son. The skies were cloudy. There was little wind. The passage was smooth. Those of us disembarking at Hesteyri were guided onto a zodiac for the short trip to the shore.

Tables were limited in the café and sharing was encouraged. The owner and young international staff were welcoming. I sat with a young German couple and their impressive assortment of cameras and telephoto lens. They were here solely to photograph artic foxes, the only land mammal native to Iceland, and had thus far been unlucky. After some delicious crepes, locally called pancakes, I set off for a hike.

Trails were not marked, except for some cleared paths, and getting lost would be ill-advised. I stayed in sight of the coast and within a few hours I saw an artic fox carrying his next meal.

Each day revealed something new.

Seals peeked their heads above the surface before diving again. A grouse, whose feathers blended perfectly with its surroundings, was nearly imperceptible. Seabirds flew overhead while a falcon perched motionless atop a rock. The views of the sea and distant hills were splendid. Looking at the terrain revealed a subtle beauty.

 Wildflowers of pink, purple, white, and yellow intermingled with the land’s hues of brown and green. Large brown mushrooms stood tall amid the low grass. I saw no trees, but passed waterfalls and stepped over streams that flowed toward the sea. Although the weather was well above freezing a small mountain of snow remained.

Exploring the coast led me to the remains of a herring factory, originally a Norwegian whaling station built in the 19^th c.

In the evenings travelers gathered in the café for hearty meals and conversation. Bedtime came early, but not before the owner/manager gave an impromptu concert on his accordion.

A storm was forecast with heavy rains and high winds. Hiking would be unpleasant at best. I was scheduled to leave before it hit the following day.

The boat was again unable to moor so the zodiac, skillfully navigated by the young boatman, came to pick us up at the pier. He guided five of us and a dog with his confident grip onto the bobbing vessel.

The storm was moving quickly and the sea became increasingly rough. I’d looked forward to a pleasant and quick return passage to Isafjordur. I hadn’t realized we’d need to be making several stops to pick up hikers at ports along the way.

The rain was coming down in sheets and drenched hikers came aboard with palpable relief.  But once we left the tiny ports the boat bucked with the waves and the color from people’s faces drained. The chatting that had, with effort, risen above the sounds of wind and sea ceased. The boatman knew his cue and handed out cleverly designed plastic cups with bags attached—none were refused. It didn’t help that the thick curtain designed to keep us dry and warm was also cutting off a fresh flow of air.  I did my best to focus on the storm: the beauty of the rain, wind, and sea—as best I could. The dog stoically kept low to the floor.

What seemed like an interminable voyage ended. We entered the tame waters of Isafjordur harbor. The pale, depleted look of the other passengers—I suspect no different from my own— was nonetheless comical. I suppressed a laugh–perhaps as much out of amusement as relief. The dog seemed to fair best and walked off the boat with aplomb. But despite the unsolicited adventure, I disembarked with wonderful memories of the Hornstrandir Nature Reserve I still cherish.

Traveling reveals local cultures and in Iceland I was noticing signs with an outline of a head above some squiggly lines. I knew the majority of Iceland’s energy is geothermal and hot springs are common, but I hadn’t expected even the smallest towns to have bathing facilities with hot tubs and heated swimming pools. (Sometimes cold plunge pools too. But despite hearing how wonderful an icy dip was, I was not tempted).

I was guided by one of those signs in the tiny village of Reykholar on a chilly gray afternoon. The parking lot was nearly empty. The office was attended by a young woman who accepted the admission fee (as I recall, very reasonable) and directed me to an anteroom where I removed my shoes and left them on a shelf. There was a strict protocol to learn and follow. I entered the women’s area where two women, completely unclothed, were taking showers in a communal area chatting casually.

We exchanged hellos and explaining it was my first time there, one kindly pointed to a poster where a figure with its head, underarms,  groin, and feet were all highlighted. She explained a thorough washing in those areas was mandatory. After disrobing and diligently adhering to the rules, I put on my bathing suit and ventured outside. The cool air encouraged me to walk briskly and enter the pool. The water warmed me in its embrace.

The women were soon joining a few people already soaking in the hot tub. Swimming apparently had less appeal for the locals. I had the pool to myself and swam back and forth along its length until succumbing to a delicious fatigue. I lingered on my back gazing up at the sky. A cool breeze blew across my face.

I retraced my steps and once again showered, retrieved my clothing, and stepped back into my shoes. I walked back to my car, took in the marsh lands just beyond, and drove to a working cow farm by the coast; my home for several nights.

I’d visit swimming facilities as often as I could. Each had its unique ambiance: some were simple and small, others had multiple pools, saunas, steam baths, and cafes. But the protocol and pleasure I found in each was the same.

After carefully negotiating yet another winding, narrow coastal road, Rte 619, in the pouring rain, I arrived in remote Selardalur, which consisted of open fields, sheep, a few homes, and the Samuel Jonsson Museum. Jonsson, a self-taught artist, born in 1884 and died in 1969, created sculptures, paintings, a church for an altar that had been rejected by the local congregation’s leadership, and a museum.

Now open to the public and attended by a charming caretaker, who offers visitors tales and tea, I wandered the grounds. The caretaker explained that Jonsson’s efforts were not appreciated in his lifetime–but I suspect every visitor, like me, leaves grateful he persevered.

It started pouring again as I reached the car and decided to wait for the weather to clear before tackling the road back. I put the radio on and George Harrison was singing Give me Love (Give me Peace on Earth). I don’t think I’d heard that song in decades, but the car soon filled with our voices.

Travel means change and time seems to change too. Days seem to expand to contain the new–a constant. All experiences may not be momentous, but they are often memorable. And even with Iceland’s small population, encounters were frequent. Discovering beauty, both man-made and natural, was ever-present as I continued east along the northern coast.

to be continued…

July 18 to August 4, 2020

Iceland is not noted for its efficient public transportation, which makes it ideal for road trips. I was limited by little more than my whims, not wishing to spend too many hours each day in the car, and the weather.

Although Iceland may not have the expanse of many countries, the open vistas, far-reaching sea, fresh air, unobstructed sky, and quiet roads felt boundless.

It was almost easy to forget the ongoing pandemic, and the difficulties others were facing  — until speaking with loved ones.

After Stykkisholmur I arrived in Budardalur, a small town you can drive by in less than a minute, and decided to stay the night. The Castle Guesthouse, despite its name, is an ordinary-looking wooden building, but the owner, who lived on site with her family, was extremely warm and welcoming. After an easy exchange, she suggested a few things to do. The first, was to follow the trail across the street and walk along the fjord. I spent hours admiring the changing sky, sea, and view.

The Leif Eiriksson Center was a new addition in town, and complemented the open-air museum a short drive away. It offered exhibitions of Eiriksson’s travels to Greenland, Canada, and the US, 500 years before Columbus while introducing a slew of colorful characters. I wasn’t expecting much and even hesitated going in, but the audio guide and wonderfully carved wooden figures succeeded in transporting me to another time.

Budardalur’s main road had a shop where a woman minding it was busily adding to the stock of hand-knitted woolen sweaters. I was tempted to buy one, but knowing I have to pack and carry what I own is an effective deterrent to acquiring more than I need.

Next door was a bright restaurant with mostly empty tables. The waitress greeted me in English. I joked that I should have bought an Icelandic sweater to blend in better, but she was from Romania, and didn’t speak Icelandic either. Many foreigners come for work and not speaking Icelandic isn’t unusual she explained.

After a leisurely breakfast (I rarely rush in the morning having done enough of that in my working years) I left Budardalur on Rte. 60, a smooth, paved surface. And shortly after, following the coast, I turned onto the unpaved Rte. 590, the beginning of the Klofningsvegur Peninsula.

It was a quiet, desolate stretch, except for the wind and the sounds my car made rumbling over the road decorated with potholes. I wasn’t surprised few drivers opted to go this way.

Except for a lone church and a few scattered farms there was little sign of human habitation before reaching the Nyp Guesthouse. The owners had been restoring the once abandoned farmhouse over the past twenty years. Clearly a labor of love, the guesthouse was beautifully enhanced with the owners’ art and marvelous views.  Guests were offered breakfast—and if desired, dinner too. (I didn’t even consider driving elsewhere that evening.) The food all came from local sources, including the owners’ garden.

The fish was fresh and delicate, roasted vegetables were sweet, and the salad, with only the slightest touch of dressing filled my mouth with more flavors than seemed possible. There was no resemblance to the pre-packaged salads, I admittedly eat too often, that have texture, but barely any taste at all.

In my room a book, Dada- Collage and Memoirs, caught my eye and learned the owners’ had known the author, Frank Ponzi.

Wanting to finish it would later lead me to the author’s son, Tomas Ponzi, and his family including his adult son, his present wife and infant son, his ninety-plus-year-old mother who’d sung opera, and a tour of his greenhouses where he and his wife were cultivating an amazing assortment of tomatoes—he offered me some delicious samples (I’d have welcomed more)—and an unexpected connection with author Halldor Laxness who’d lived next door. I left with a copy of the book.

Since books are a necessity, I exclude them from my acquisition rule (although when I’m finished with one, I pass it on ). Having bought Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth at the Snaefellsjokull Visitor Center was a particular treat. It’s the very glacier where the journey in the book begins.

Books are my constant traveling companions. Although a Kindle would weigh less and my selection would not be limited to what I can find while traveling, the pleasure I get from “unplugging” and turning a page makes the transition non-negotiable. And my search for books is like an ongoing treasure hunt—I never know what gems I will find.

My passion for books didn’t develop until I was in college. Television in my younger years had far more appeal. Movies reigned supreme, but I’d be amiss to deny my delight watching shows of the 60’s like Batman, The Avengers, I Dream of Jeannie, The Prisoner, Get Smart, and Bewitched. I digress.

Next stop was Holmavik, a small coastal village whose economy seemed reliant on the shrimp processing plant and tourism. The Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft, filled two floors of an old harbor building. The very sensitive might have found the exhibits disturbing.  A replica of Necropants, a pair of pants made from the lower half of a dead human being—this one was definitively male, featured prominently in the collection. According to folklore it was believed the wearer would receive an endless supply of money. Whether such pants ever existed is for the viewer to decide. And those prone to nightmares might have benefitted from a stop into the cheery cafe just next door before departing.

The town was a great base to explore the area.

Djupavik can be reached by Rte. 643, a narrow gravel road. I was glad traffic was light: there were few guard rails, precarious drops, and sharp, blind turns. But the views were stunning.

When I arrived at the Djupavik Hotel, lunch of homemade soup and fresh bread was being served. I helped myself to the buffet in the crowded dining room—there were no masks, no social-distancing — and sat at the one free table. Conversations in Icelandic filled the room.

Djupavik was once the site of the first fully automated fish factory in Europe, built in 1934 when herring were abundant, but overfishing depleted their numbers and operations ceased twenty years later.

I signed up for an afternoon tour of the factory. When I arrived the man giving it was speaking only Icelandic to a gathered group of tourists. When the group wandered off, I asked the guide a few questions. The quick exchange revealed that he was the owners’ son, had lived in Brooklyn a few years, was almost done guiding the group, and if I could wait a short while, kindly offered to give me a private tour.

I wandered around the immense facility — it showed little sign of renovation, including The Factory, a space dedicated to showcasing contemporary art–before being joined again.

The story began when the last residents leaving Djupavik were featured on a television show piquing his father’s interest (his grandfather had some connection to the factory). After a visit his father was invited to buy it. In the end, his parents “a couple of hippies” were won over. The living quarters for the women workers, built in the 1930’s, was renovated and the hotel opened in 1985. The unique property is still their home and remains a work in progress. I imagined the fun he and his siblings would have had playing hide and seek there. He now had a family of his own to enjoy it.

Isafjordur is an old fishing town with an active harbor. Wooden buildings from the 18th and 19th century remain nestled on small streets not far from a modern mall, gas station, eateries, and shops.

I wanted to take a break from my wanderings and found a charming, cozy cottage, surrounded by hay fields, a stream, and a view of the hills. Silence was broken by the song of birds and the occasional car of a distant neighbor.

But the cottage shower, slightly sheltered, was outdoors. The first morning, with some trepidation, I walked outside donning the robe the owner had provided for this purpose. Attempting to be as deft as possible, I quickly got under a welcome gush of hot water. My body was instantly warmed while a chilly breeze blew around me. It was a splendid ritual I would perform for the next ten days.

Town was about three miles away and there were several paths I could walk on to get there. Isafjordur had plenty to discover and enjoy.

The Westfjord History Museum showcased fishermen’s formidable relationship, in the past and today,  with the sea. They also hosted a music series. I attended a memorable performance of a singer, who looked more lumberjack than troubadour, performing original tunes, Tom Waits covers, and Icelandic folk songs while accompanying himself on guitar–and joined by a string quartet.

The Nonsense Museum, just off the main street, displayed hundreds of bottle caps, Pez dispensers, match-boxes, and other curious collections.

And the Museum of Everyday Life had a wall of shoes with an audio narrative by the owner for each, a video of Icelanders who grew up thinking the Northern Lights were nothing special–until tourism showed them otherwise, and written stories by immigrants who now called Iceland home.

A place I kept returning to was the Eyrantuni Museum, originally a hospital opened in 1925. It housed a wonderful library with a selection of books in English, comfortable chairs, and a photography and art museum.

Out front was a large field where adults and children were often playing.

Normally that time of year massive ships would be unloading throngs of tourists to shop, eat, and fill the streets, but because of the pandemic the cruises stopped and the streets were largely empty. Although I was happy the town wasn’t inundated with day-trippers, I was sensitive to an economic hardship and asked a shop owner if this was a tough time. She surprised me by saying, “I’m enjoying the peace and quiet. It’s nice without the crowds.” Whether her sentiment represented others besides me, or if hers would last, I do not know.

But certain places were still thriving. The Tjoruhusid fish restaurant offered dinner service twice each evening, and getting a reservation for either was not easy. When I arrived the place was already packed. I was directed to one of several long wooden tables in the rustic wooden space, just a stone’s throw from the harbor, and was seated elbow to elbow and across from other diners. The buffet depended on the catch of the day and the owner/chef, who showed ample sign of enjoying his own cuisine, announced in a booming voice the menu for that evening first in Icelandic and then English. Fish chowder and brown bread were served, we then lined up to choose and be served from the-all-you-can-eat buffet of fish, vegetables, grains all prepared in a variety of ways.

Conversation flowed throughout the evening. Other travelers, from Germany, sat to my left. Across was an Icelandic couple who mentioned their concern that foreigners were bringing Covid into the country. Gently they were reminded that we had all been tested several times before we were allowed entry. The ambiance remained festive and after a superb meal, I walked back home around 10 p.m. The sunset was still an hour away.

The fourteen tunnels in Iceland were built to bypass hazardous mountain and coastal roads (not all were avoidable, as I learned) and the Vestfirdir Tunnel is the longest. It connects Isafjordur to the towns of Flateyri and Sudureyri and is nearly six miles (nine kms) long, mostly straight with only one lane. Oncoming cars can be seen from a distance and pull off areas—enough room for about three cars—permit the flow of traffic. Who has the right of way is determined by the direction you’re going in. But when to turn off requires decent depth perception in the dim tunnel –headlights are the guiding factor–and a healthy sense of self-preservation. Turn off too soon and you could be frustrating drivers behind you, turn off too late and it could require some awkward driving in reverse, or worse.

While visiting prosperous Reykjavik, arduous living conditions of the past (depicted beautifully and poignantly in Laxness’ Independent People) were hard to imagine, but I would happen upon remnants of those times.

And even today, many Icelanders live a rugged existence. The other book I’d bought in Reykjavik, Heida: A Shepherd at the Edge of the World offers such an account. The future of sheep farming is threatened by rising costs and lower returns. As recent as the 1980’s sheep outnumbered people in Iceland by the hundreds of thousands, today their number is nearly equal. But for now, despite the hardships and difficulties, sheep farming prevails, and with it many traditions.

A few times I had to wait while sheep crossed the road in front of me. I’d give a wave to the shepherd and get a gesture of thanks in return.

Vigur Island is a popular day trip from Isafjordur. The tiny island, about one mile long and a quarter of a mile wide, is a wildlife sanctuary where puffins, eider ducks, artic terns, black guillemots, and razorbills abound. Visitors generally come to see them on a three-hour tour, but I’d read the island was recently bought by a couple and accommodations were available for overnight stays. It was pricey, but I decided to splurge and booked a two night stay. Although the owners, Gisli and Felicity, were away, I made arrangements to be picked up by a relative from the nearby harbor of Sudavik.

Arriving at the designated hour I was met by the owner’s nephew who looked quite young, and welcomed me aboard a small odd looking boat while dark clouds gathered overhead. The weather quickly took on a menacing air, the wind was picking up, and the sea was swelling with white caps. The boat bobbed with increasing frequency. Seeking some reassurance, I asked the young man if he’d crossed these waters many times. “No, just here for the holidays.” he said. I tried to return his response with a look of confidence. What should have been about a thirty-minute trip extended to over twice that: he was cautious and took it slow.

Pulling up to the pier, Gisli’s mom, sisters, and niece were there to welcome us. I was led past their dwelling and invited into an old wooden home with two bedrooms, sitting area, and full kitchen. I was the sole guest and they recommended I take the bedroom on the ground floor to avoid climbing the staircase/ladder. I did. The two homes were the only lodgings on the island–if one doesn’t include those of the countless birds.

The family invited me over after settling in. I unpacked the food I’d brought, meals were not included, and walked the few steps to my neighbors’ door. We sat around a large kitchen table, chatting, and enjoying homemade cakes, pancakes, and hot coffee.

During the conversation Gisli’s mother mentioned that her son’s wife, Felicity Aston, had written some books and went on to describe them. Her English was hesitant and I wasn’t sure I’d understood all that she’d said. But I had. One was a first-person account of Ms. Aston skiing across the Antarctic land-mass alone—the first person to do so. And the other was Aston’s account of preparing for and leading a group of women from across the globe—including places where there was no snow—on a skiing expedition to the South Pole. The books were available for sale. I found room for both in my bag. (I encourage you to read more about this exceptional woman and her ongoing extraordinary expeditions.) http://www.felicityaston.co.uk/

Word arrived that tour boats scheduled to arrive that afternoon had been cancelled due to the rough sea. Our crossing had been the last of the day. Now free, the family offered to show me the island. We took sticks to keep the artic terns from dive bombing our heads and passed over fields once used for sustaining past inhabitants, before the eider down industry and tourism took over. The land rose toward the island’s center. Soil was soft underfoot where hundreds of puffins seasonally burrow their nests. Not falling into one took some effort.

When the family headed back I wandered toward the coast. Everywhere I looked was the marvel, grace, antics, and beauty of birds.

The following day the wind was strong and the sea was turbulent, but the weather did not impede my wanderings.

I didn’t see the family, who apparently preferred to stay indoors. It felt as if I had the entire island for myself—just me, and the thousands of birds.

I remained on the coast for hours, enthralled with the puffins as they flew overhead, convened on rocks, or emerged from their nests. They seemed quite content to gather in small groups and while away time before diving into the sea to fish and return again.

The morning I was scheduled to leave, the weather gods interceded. There would be no crossings again that day. The family invited me to stay the night as their guest and to drop by later for a meal.

I expressed my thanks and quickly headed toward the coast where I knew the puffins would be.

To be continued…

15 June to 18 July 2020

In June of 2020, I was back in New York City. Fatal Covid cases were alarmingly high. There was no vaccine. Many people were wary to venture outside. Others already tired of restrictions were flouting safety recommendations. The unseasonably high temperatures, like walking through cement humidity, navigating crowded sidewalks–donning the recommended facemask which felt more asphyxiating than protective–was not fun. And seeing loved ones was tricky.

It was also Culture Shock. I’d just come from daily hikes in Patagonia, enjoying country air and stunning vast vistas. The only living beings I’d likely encounter had four legs or wings.

I knew my trials paled to so many, but I also knew I didn’t want to stay in NYC.

I happened upon an article showcasing Iceland as the poster child of the pandemic: cases were low and isolated. I’d thought of going in the past, but always ended up elsewhere. It seemed like now was the perfect time. Although Americans (and Chinese–Iceland’s top non-European tourist groups) were denied entry, I’d be able to enter with my French passport. Direct flights from NY were canceled, but a flight via Amsterdam was available.

Although the transatlantic flight had few passengers, the Amsterdam to Reykjavik flight was packed. The unoccupied middle-seat policy had been lifted. The very tall Frank and petite Ellen from Holland sat next to me and we were soon speaking of travel. Our eyes conveyed what our masked faces could not. They were renting a van for three weeks to travel Iceland’s popular Ring Road. We exchanged numbers and hoped to see each other again.

Upon entry, two Covid tests(swabs in both nose and throat) were administered by a good-natured staff wearing the requisite protective pandemic attire. Arriving passengers were expected to isolate until we received our results. But there was no restriction leaving the airport on a public bus. Gazing upon Iceland for the first time, I was markedly underwhelmed. The bus window framed a flat, shrubby landscape, and indistinct home developments. “Beautiful” did not come to mind, but a joke I’d been told did, “If you get lost in a forest in Iceland, just stand up.”

The apartment I’d rented in downtown Reykjavik was spacious with large windows, but only a few small panes actually opened. When the wind came through I understood why. The furnishings were understated and lovely.

Iceland seemed both foreign and familiar.

When I ventured out for some groceries I passed two-story attached, beige buildings, similar to the one I was staying in. They led to smaller private homes and yards on quiet streets. There was little traffic and few people. I complemented a woman on the garden she was tending bursting with flowers and greenery. She seemed pleased. A nearby corner shop, with just enough space to do a jumping jack, had two coolers, a counter, and shelves all packed with goods: dried fish and meats, dairy products, beverages, and many items I did not recognize. I gravitated toward the most recognizable and the shop owner did his best to explain some others. Feeling more jet-lagged than adventurous, I left with fresh brown bread, cucumbers, tomatoes, fresh cheese, coffee, and skyr (think yogurt).

The small and appealing coastal city, easily navigable on foot, offered plenty to see including historic wooden homes, stone structures, bold modern architecture, a pretty port, duck pond, beach, lovely lanes, restaurants, cafes, and the Phallological Museum which boasts a collection of all the mammal phallic specimens in Iceland. I somehow never got there.

It also had several bookstores—my go to places in any town. Decades ago I’d made the mistake of bringing Anna Karenina to read while traveling through India. The juxtaposition between place and page was so jarring, I left Anna, alive and well, in Rajasthan. Since then, I try to read books that reflect/enhance my local experience. Knowing nothing of Icelandic literature including their sagas, I inquired about Icelandic “must-reads”. I followed the young salesman as he wandered around the shop and left a short time later with two books in hand, Independent People, by Halldor Laxness, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature, and Heida: A Shepherd at the Edge of the World by Steinunn Sigurgardottir. (Icelandic surnames traditionally take the first name of the father–sometimes mother–and add at the end “son” for sons or “ dottir” for daughters. I’m not sure how this is resolved for the gender-fluid.)

Throughout my wanderings I don’t recall anyone wearing a mask. It seemed to be the land that forgot Covid.

My plans were still unknown, beyond my three nights in Reykjavik, but renting a car was a must. I searched “best car rental in Iceland,” and Lotus Car Rental came up. The accolade was warranted: they offered excellent service, a reasonable arrangement, and tremendous flexibility–a huge plus. I picked up the Lonely Planet Iceland Guide and a roadmap.

The population of Iceland is around 380,000 and a third are residents of Reykjavik. Roads throughout the country are mostly two lanes with no shoulder. Traffic, particularly outside the city, is light. Some tourists have interpreted this to mean that stopping in the middle of the road to take photographs is okay.  Watch any Iceland do’s and dont’s videos before heading off.  They’ll all tell you, It is not! More tips include: watch out for animals, drive slowly on gravel, check weather conditions regularly, and be cautious crossing rivers, no matter how shallow they appear–best to let someone else cross first. I also learned about F-roads (but not what the F stood for). They require 4×4’s for the challenging terrain, including river crossings. Admittedly, I’d rented a 4×4 for additional driving stability/security on unpaved roads. Not to test my Do Not Panic! skills.

Normally summer is peak tourist season. Weather is wonderful and days are long: sunrise was around 3 a.m. and sunset around 11 p.m. However the number of tourists was drastically reduced. I still hoped to explore the lesser known parts of the country.  A rough plan began to formulate. I would drive as much of Iceland’s coast as possible,

beginning with the hand extending northwest of the island known as the Westfjords–the least populated and visited region.

Driving out of Reykjavik toward Arnarstapi I duly concentrated on the winding, narrow road.  But glimpses of green fields punctuated with vivid wildflowers against the expansive sky were unavoidable. The image contrasted with the land my critical eyes had initially gazed upon. Beauty emerged. The open windows drew in a breeze but little noise.

Waterfalls were everywhere.

I’d booked a home in Arnarstapi for three nights. The upstairs was reached by steep stairs that looked more like a ladder. The windows afforded splendid views. In addition to some wooden homes, the village consisted of a small hotel, church, and café but they were all closed. There were no shops (I’d stopped at a supermarket en route for the basics), or town center.  The only animation came from some sheep. And a bird in the high grass–as I neared it danced about as if it had a hurt wing–a ruse to keep predators away from it’s young.

I wandered down to the tiny port and a café, that looked like it’d been a fishing shack.  As I sat on the deck eating a sandwich and watching the sea, some Icelanders gathered.

The adults wore classic woolen sweaters. Kids wore coveralls and knee-high rubber boots. They walked to the water’s edge laughing and playing. Their language entwined with the sea air.

I’d made some effort to learn a few words. Saying hello/ hallo and thanks/ takk fyrir was simple enough, but its complexity spiraled quickly from there.

Icelanders made up the greatest number of tourists I met throughout my trip: the pandemic was a great incentive to explore ones own country. Most spoke English very well.

Hellnar, the next village over was reached by a coastal path.

I followed it through rough black lava fields and rock formations carved by the sea. While enjoying the stunning scenery, artic terns began swooping down to peck at my head. Unknowingly I’d walked into their nesting grounds. Some walkers began swinging sticks over their heads. I was happy to leave the terns as quickly as I could and walk again amid the peace and quiet.

After stopping at more waterfalls, picking up three soaked scouts hitch-hiking, and seeing my first glacier-peaked volcano in the Snaefellsjokull National Park with black sand beaches, I arrived in Stykkisholmur. Its soul is its port. The town’s modern art museum is perched on a hill above it and showcased Roni Horn’s 24 glass columns of water,

a shop displayed the humane process of gathering eider down (considered to be the highest quality in the world) from abandoned nests for its products, and it’s where I had the best fish and chips I’ve ever eaten prepared by teens in an unassuming truck set up in a parking lot; the fishing boats provided the town’s beating heart. And ferries provided passage to Flatey Island.

I bought a ticket to Flatey Island in Stykkisholmur’s ticket office/shop/café and a copy of The Flatey Enigma by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson. Although I rarely read murder mysteries, I couldn’t resist reading a book that takes place on the very island I was going to (It’s quite different from Independent People– an extraordinary, brilliant book by the way– but the mystery was fun and involved an actual medieval manuscript).

“Flatey” Island aptly means flat. It’s also tiny. The island spans about two kilometers long and about one kilometer wide. The summer population swells with visitors and those staying in their summer homes. The winter population is around five. Accommodations are limited. I’d found a room with shared bath in the sole hotel, Hotel Flatey, for two nights. One car and one tractor passed by on the one road I followed from the dock to the old village. That was pretty much the extent of the traffic.

The hotel had a restaurant, where I had most of my meals—it was the island’s only dining option. My room had a single bed and a sloped ceiling that nearly met the wooden floor. A small window was fit in the space between. It offered a view of the sea. I sat atop a cushion. As I took in the seascape, the sky darkened and wind picked up. A flock of eider ducks with their young showed no hesitation in negotiating the strong gusts and turbulent sea. All of them just bobbed and bobbed some more, while the anchored boats violently tossed and swayed.

The island was splendid and despite its size had everything I needed. Time there had a pace all its own. The sea, wind, birds, and sheep were often the only sounds to interrupt the silence. I wandered along the various paths. Getting lost was not possible. There was always something to notice and admire, including an unexpected and curious totem.

I wandered into the church where the interior is wonderfully decorated and the central character looks like a typical fisherman donning an Icelandic sweater.

I wandered past rams who watched my every move.

And I wandered along the road I’d followed three days before back to the ferry. Returning to Stykkisholmur I picked up my car and continued along the coast.

to be continued…

22 March to 15 June 2020

My flights from Coyhaique to Santiago, and Santiago to New York had been cancelled, rescheduled, and cancelled with regularity. Chile was now facing its own pandemic crisis. Leadership, if one can call it that, in the US, continued to be horrifyingly askew. News reports were grim worldwide.

But when arriving back at Carpe Diem in Coyhaique I’d received a warm welcome from Roxana, Cesar, and their young daughter Victoria the evening before. I’d slept well, started a fire in the wood burning stove, made some breakfast, and looked out from my cozy dome while sipping my coffee and enjoyed the view.

I was grateful for the comfort of my home and the warmth of the fire. I felt safe and rested, having slept nearly eleven hours in a delicious bed.

However, concerns remained. I again checked the status of my flights. None were scheduled.

I called the American Embassy in Chile. A man with a pleasant voice answered quickly. I explained my situation, and asked about flights. He sounded calm and personable, and spoke to me as if he had all the time in the world. “I cannot advise you personally,” he said. And added, “I can only give you the official word. Special flights are being arranged for nationals to get back to the US–for now. Return immediately, or be prepared to stay in Chile for an indefinite time.”

Risk of exposure to the virus on planes and in New York, now the epicenter, was deemed high. The thought of going there, or anywhere, was losing its appeal.  But I still hadn’t made up my mind.

I’d shared my concerns with Roxana and Cesar. They were not only sympathetic but calming and kind. They told me I was welcome to stay as long as I needed to and proposed an arrangement, if I should stay, so generous I had to refuse and propose another. I didn’t know them well, but I knew their caring was sincere. They’d made me comfortable, in every sense, from the first moments we’d met. They were now inviting me to share their wonderful refuge. But was I ready to stay there indefinitely?

I kept hearing The Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go” in my head.

I went outside to get some air. The sun was strong and the chill of the morning was all but gone. I sat on a low bench, and Chispita, their dog, came over to me. I’d met her during my first stay when she’d approached me, then rolled over immediately so I could rub her belly.

This time she sat before me. I stroked her neck and head while thinking, “Should I stay or should I go?” Chispita lifted her paw and rested it on my hand, as if telling me to stay.

—–

I’d been traveling at a steady pace for years. Change had been the constant. And then it wasn’t. I didn’t know when I’d be traveling again. Coyhaique suddenly, and unexpectedly, became my home, indefinitely.

——-

Speaking with family and friends throughout the globe was comforting, but everyone was affected. We were all adjusting, as best we could, to this strange, new world.

My mind was incapable of focusing on more than one thing at a time, and that one thing was often the news. Getting much done was impossible.

But a stream of smiles, warm hellos, and gentle concerns from Roxana and Cesar insuring I had everything I needed, brought me joy, despite the challenging times. Their young daughter Victoria quickly lost her shyness and was soon sharing her latest creation with me, made from assorted materials–always imaginative and colorful.

It took no time at all to develop a profound bond with this family. They became mi familia. Our many hours together, where discussions covered every topic imaginable, were always a pleasure and often filled with laughter.

—

Above my home the hills fanned out and initially seemed so steep I was intimidated to venture very far. It was like being at the top of a ski slope where I couldn’t see the bottom, except in reverse.

But there was comfort in knowing I couldn’t get lost. No matter where I ended up, heading down would eventually get me back home.

I started hiking up into the hills gradually exploring the terrain more and more.

Cesar presented me with a walking stick. He’d wrapped the handle for comfort and carved my name into its side. My cherished gift fit perfectly in my hand. I never hiked without it.

I often say walking is my sanity, whether for a short stroll or long hike. It has always brought me peace of mind. It’s a chance to stimulate the senses and appreciate the nuanced beauty of nature–true magic. I get out of my head and fully experience the moment.

And hiking with dogs is one of my greatest joys. Chispita and Patas became my hiking companions extraordinaire. (I’d be amiss in not mentioning the other members of the family: the horse, Guenazo, the cats, Panda and Milagro, and a few chickens, but their role in my life cannot be compared.)

When setting out each afternoon, I rarely had a destination in mind, even when I became familiar with the area. I’d often follow a path to see where it would go. I’d assumed these paths had been made by hikers–little did I know that cows have their favorite routes too. But sometimes these paths ended up in a bramble so dense I’d have to follow or create another.

Chispita and Patas, mis compañeros, when around, were delighted to accompany me and although they ran freely, they enjoyed staying near. However, the temptation to dash off and taunt the grazing cows or chase a pheasant deep from the brush, was always satisfied.

No matter how far they wandered, Chispita and Patas would come running back to me, often with their tongues hanging from their panting mouths.

While exploring I’d found a few favorite places with spectacular views. There I’d stop and drink some tea I’d brought in a thermos Roxana had given me. (She’d made sure I had something warm to drink on my excursions–and often brought over soup or a snack for my return.)

I came to call these pauses the “love fest.”

Patas would either drop himself on my lap, his body stretched out for maximum comfort–his own, not mine (He is really too big to be a lap dog.)–or sit by my side. I’d dig my hands into his fur while he looked blissful. I imagined if he could, he’d purr.

Chispita would patiently wait her turn then gently lean into me. (Patas was reluctant to share my affection and usually made it difficult for me to pet them at the same time.) Chispita could be fierce and tough when she had to be, but in my hands she would be relaxed and tender.

Admittedly, I enjoyed these moments too.

——-

I tried to limit my trips into town for essential shopping only. Although the region had very few Covid cases, and residents dutifully kept their distance, were respectful and wore masks, I was only too pleased to return home again to the joy and comfort with mi familia and mis compañeros.

—–

It is easy to see the new while traveling, when surroundings are constantly changing. Now, I was rarely more than a few miles from home. My days quickly took on a routine, but the new nonetheless was revealed.

There was always something to observe: the sky’s spectrum of blues and greys, the snow upon the distance mountains thinned and thickened with the cold and thaw.

The grass, trees, and shrubs slowly lost the summer’s lushness and took on the burnish of fall.

Winter was approaching.

And then I received news that some flights were resuming. The number of Covid cases in NY were stabilizing and I’d needed to go and take care of some things.

I thought it best to travel while I still could and booked the flights.

—–

It has been quite a challenge to describe the extraordinary experience I had in Chile with mi familia and express my heartfelt gratitude for all their kindness.

Have I adequately conveyed all the laughter, joy, and wonderful moments we shared?

Have I done justice in showing and describing the breathtaking beauty of Chile and the generosity of the people I met there?

I think not.

But I do know that these memories are woven with an abounding love that will not fade.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

14 February to 1 March 2020

Months prior, a typhoon had hit Japan days after I’d arrived in Tokyo. And sometime later, I’d been gazing at smoke-filled skies from Australia’s devastating wildfires. In New Zealand, I was grateful for the calm days and mostly blue skies.

While making my way around the South Island I had few destinations in mind, but one was Milford Sound. I was heading there when 39 inches (100 cms) of rain fell in 60 hours causing emergency evacuations and extensive damage. Franz Josef, where I’d been just days before, experienced landslides and major flooding. People in the hundreds were stranded during the height of the tourist season and tragically there was loss of life.

I was extremely lucky. I only had to rethink my travel plans.

Doubtful Sound, thought by some to be more beautiful than Milford Sound, had not been affected by the heavy rains. I booked an overnight cruise and a stay in Te Anu.

After the cruise I drove on mostly empty, scenic roads passing through Tuatapere.

And stopped for the night in Riverton, a small coastal town.

I’d read about Stewart Island/Rakiura, renown for its birdwatching and hiking trails, and wanted to go. But almost all of it is undeveloped, much of it is difficult to access, the only town is Oban on Halfmoon Bay, and accommodations are limited.

I’d hoped to rent a cabin, but the only place available was a bed in a hostel with two roommates. One never uttered a word and was completely absorbed by her telephone. The other was very friendly, but had a lot of catching up to do with all the members of her family and friends via video chats.

I spent little time in the room except for sleeping.

Daphne, from the Netherlands, was looking for a ride from Stewart Island up the coast. I was driving that way. We spent two days exploring the route together. She was easy company and we hit it off well.

After dropping Daphne off I continued on to Oamaru. You may recall this was going to be my first stop after arriving in Christchurch, but Elton John fans fully booked the town for his concert having me seek other options.

Oamaru is unique and I loved it.

It is NZ’s capital of Steampunk (think Brazil, the movie, during the Victorian Era) and Victoriana (a movement based on historical fact not fiction.) It was not unusual to see people donning imaginative attire including leather corsets, top hats and flying goggles (the Steampunkers) and classic 19th c. attire (the Victorianas).

Oamaru is home to the smallest variety of penguin. And no shortage of local characters. It is also a feast of striking buildings and structures.

After Oamaru, I made my way back toward Christchurch via Lyttleton.

To see some of the North Island I decided to travel to Auckland from Christchurch by train, instead of flying. I had a chance to visit Christchurch before leaving.

Christchurch is still struggling after its devastating earthquakes.

But overall the city seemed to be meeting the challenge. And signs of resilience were abundant.

I spent a late afternoon wandering through the Christchurch Botanic Garden. I found exactly what I was hoping for, an oasis of beauty, peace, and calm.

I booked a private room in a woman’s immaculate home, walking distance to the train station. The train’s departure was 7 a.m. the following day. I’d had a long day and another ahead of me. That evening I retired to my room to read awhile. Around 10 p.m. my host unexpectedly stood in the hallway and asked through the closed door ” What person do you admire most?” I uttered, “Nelson Mandela” thinking it would put the conversation to rest. She quickly followed that with something else. It became clear she was hoping to have a conversation. As politely as possible, still through the closed door, I wished her a good night and shut off my light.

The following morning a spread of breakfast goodies were there for me to choose from. Apparently there were no hard feelings.

The train trip, and ferry, up north required a night in Wellington before arriving at my final destination, Auckland.

My time in Auckland was short, but I had time enough to wander along many streets, stop into a bookstore where I had a lengthy chat with the owner about Chrissie Hynde’s paintings and the time he’d met her, attend a poetry reading, and head over to Devonport, a bayside village, by ferry, for a walk along the beach.

Next stop Chile.

to be continued…

3 February to 14 February 2020

Arrival in Christchurch

Any ideas I had about New Zealand came from the movies. The scenery looked splendid and the Maori culture was intriguing, but the country was too far/too expensive to actually visit.

Over time, I met Kiwis (The term is used with pride and thought of as endearing not derogatory. It refers to the New Zealander’s national symbol, the elusive, flightless bird– not the fruit, aptly and solely called in NZ, kiwifruit). The people were delightful and I hoped to visit their homeland someday, but that was that.

Then, a few years ago, I happened upon an unsual television series, Top of the Lake, filmed in NZ, with the not-to-be-missed Holly Hunter and Elisabeth Moss. The opening shot of mountains and lake dazzled me. My interest was given a fresh jolt.

Traveling in Japan then Australia made it finally feasible to go. I still knew remarkably little about the country, but at the end of my trip in Tasmania I took a crash course on the internet and bought the Lonely Planet Guide at the airport.

New Zealand is made up of the North and South Islands. The North Island, home to its capital Auckland, is populated with 77% of the country’s residents, and the Maori are largely concentrated there. The South Island is noted for its fjords and expansive national parks. Its largest city, Christchurch, suffered a devastating earthquake back in 2010 and another, even more destructive, six months later.

I gave myself a month in NZ, before setting off for Chile. Given my self-imposed time restraint, I concentrated on the South Island. Once again taking a road trip seemed ideal.

I’d left Port Arthur, Tasmania the morning of February 3rd and drove to Hobart Airport for a flight that afternoon. With a lay-over in Melbourne, I arrived in Christchurch just before midnight. I got my bag, passed through customs, and looked for a taxi. I knew the motel I’d booked was close, but the only driver at that hour quoted me a ridiculous price. I was tired, but not tired enough to be fleeced upon arrival.

I used Uber instead, and an enormous man who practically took up the entire front seat of his car pulled up a bit later. The road was nearly empty and too dark to see much, except various motel signs along the quiet strip leading from the airport. When we arrived at mine, I hurried out to get my bag in the trunk so the driver wouldn’t have to. He still seemed out of breath from putting it there.

An envelope, pinned to the entrance door of the motel, had my name and room number on it, and a key inside. No one was around. The decor of my room looked like it hadn’t been changed in decades, but it was clean, spacious, quiet, and had a small kitchen.

After a good sleep I sat with a mug of coffee, compliments of the motel, to map out a general itinerary. Heading down the east coast with a first stop in Oamaru seemed like as good a start as any. I looked for an accommodation. But all I could find available, using several websites, was an empty lot. I figured there had to be a mistake so phoned one of the B&Bs showing no vacancies to find out. A woman answered. “Everywhere around has been booked for months.” then added with a hint of astonishment. “Haven’t you heard about the Elton John concert?” It seemed like I was the only person who had not.

Setting Off

Despite the coffee and a good sleep, all the traveling from the day before was starting to hit me. I’d decided to visit Christchurch at the end of my trip, if there was time, and head out of the city that day. But driving several hours, in any direction, began to have little appeal.

Oamaru was no longer an option. Plan B was quickly devised. I’d go to Akaroa about an hour away instead.

It didn’t take long before I was driving on country roads and getting captivated by the beauty. A body of turquoise water was appearing in the distance and I was headed right toward it.

Akaroa’s history of bloody conflicts between the Maori and British was hard to imagine. The town today is postcard pretty: dotted with lovely wooden buildings, quaint streets–many with French names (French settlers came later), parks, splendid water views (the harbor is home to Hector dolphins which unfortunately I didn’t see), and nestled among hills and the remnants of a volcano.

I spent the day admiring the scenery, the architecture, a playground with rusted but intriguing rides from another time, and dining on fresh seafood. That evening I relaxed on the balcony of my studio apartment overlooking the water. It was an auspicious beginning.

Leaving Akaroa I picked up a hitch-hiker heading back to Christchurch. Gee worked in town as a waitress and was heading home for the week-end. Leaving Thailand was something she’d dreamed of for years, but was fearful, and her family was against it. Her grandmother gave her the courage to go. Although she missed her family, particularly her grandmother, she loved her freedom and had no plans on returning anytime soon. I dropped Gee off at a crossroads where she’d arranged a friend to pick her up. She asked if she could hug me when we said goodbye. “Of course,” I said.

Heading West

I planned on sleeping hours away in Otira. Heading west toward Arthur’s Pass I took winding mountain roads, passed over raging rivers, drove under expansive skies, and through wide open plains. It was beautiful country, new to my eyes, yet often reminded me of certain elsewheres. Until I saw these extraordinarily huge boulders looming in the distance. It’s hard to miss the Kura Tawhiti Conservation Area, also known as Castle Hill. It looks like giants played with clay and left their creations behind.

I stopped to wander around, up and down.

Towns were few, but the name “Otira Stagecoach Hotel” would have stood out anyway. I entered the large wooden building into the dining area/reception.  A fire was roaring at one end and several toilets, mostly antiques, were lined up against a wall on the other. They seemed to guide the guests to the rooms down the hall. The walls were covered with photos and paintings, and shelves were lined with stuffed animals (the real kind), books, and a seemingly endless array of this and that and who-knows-what.

Lester, an older gentleman, who I later learned was the owner, stood behind a counter, chatting with a fellow in knee-high rubber boots, layers of woolen clothing, and a cap. Their similar attire aimed for comfort and staying warm. At this altitude, even though it was summer, Otira was cool and damp. The town averages 5.5 meters (18 feet) of rain per year.

While enjoying a regional specialty, cooked by Lester, whitebait and potato wedges, he told me about the hotel built in 1865 for a growing population in search of gold. (Today the coal miners in the area are fighting for their livelihood.) He’d gotten smitten with the place and decided to buy it. His story reminded me of Ralph’s back in Queenstown, Tasmania. Lester too was working to restore the hotel with period furniture, fixtures, decor. Unlike Ralph, his purchases included stagecoaches and virtually the entire town of Otira too.

Lester started this labor of love with his companion in 2014 but according to him, his hording did the relationship in. Apparently that fifth or was it the tenth stagecoach he purchased sent her packing. He was now pretty much running the place on his own.

My room had a four poster bed, small wooden tables, a desk, old photographs, and various knick-knacks holding secrets from the past. The separate bathroom was furnished with a floral antique sink and toilet: the one with the tank high up and long pull cord. Only the shower was new. The room’s large windows revealed a verdant mountain mostly shrouded in mist. Train tracks lay in between and long coal trains passed by. Later that evening their soothing sound and gentle rhythm lulled me to sleep.

Moving On

Mary lives with her two teen-age daughters just outside of Greymouth across the road from the sea. She rents a guest suite where I booked a night. Her home is surrounded by a lush garden she’s been nurturing over twenty years. A palomino lazily grazed in her large front yard.

I was invited over for tea. Mary’s sunlit home, like the guest suite, with her artwork hanging on the walls is beautifully decorated and inviting. We sat on high stools in her kitchen as her daughters came and went. She and her daughters are beautiful. They’d all just come back with a cousin from tramping (hiking) ten days, fourteen hours a day, carrying everything they needed in their packs. The cousin, thirteen, had never hiked before, but she did fine, even while crossing rivers waist high.

Having admired her garden from afar, I asked for a tour. We weaved in and out the narrow paths under trees whose branches hung with fruit, between robust bushes and flowers, and across neatly dug beds with cabbage, broccoli, and herbs. Mary began picking plums and berries along the way and invited me to pick them too. We ate as we walked. Their sweetness was intoxicating and the song of cicadas, birds, and the ocean’s ceaseless roar filled the air.

That afternoon I followed a path along the shore and through a forest to the Point Elizabeth lookout with spectacular views.

I’d passed a sign marked “Museum” on my way to Mary’s and decided to stop on my way out the following day.

The museum was just next door to Parky’s Auto Wreckers and I think the owner/guide/stock car driver/mechanic/collector/junk car dealer was one and the same. He offered to show me around. The two large rooms were packed floor to ceiling with radios, vacuum cleaners, teapots, matchbooks, watches, and just about anything and everything one could collect. Hundreds of baseball caps hung from the ceiling.

When I mentioned that the museum reminded me of the Otira Stagecoach Hotel, the owner said “I sold him a bunch of things” and with no hint of irony added, “But he’s got much too much stuff!”

Once I hit the west coast, I’d thought to head south but the Paparoa National Park, and the famous Pancake Rocks, looked too intriguing to miss. I made a short detour north instead.

I booked a few nights in a bach (pronounced “batch” as in bachelor’s pad, but more a summer cottage) further up the coast.

The owner called to ask if everything was okay. It was. The bach offered a splendid view and sounds of the sea only meters away.

He asked if I’d been collecting the jade from the beach. I hadn’t noticed any, but after our conversation when I returned for another stroll it seemed green stones were everywhere. Few, if any, I suppose were valuable, but they were fun to collect while I imagined amassing a trove of riches.

Driving to town for groceries the next day it was impossible to ignore the sky becoming dark and ominous. When the heavy rains came the long hike I´d planned was doubtful. And then I passed a lone building advertising Underground Glow-worm Tours. Perfect!

The only other tourists in my group were a couple from Martha’s Vineyard who’d made “tons of money selling soft pretzels”. We took a tiny train through a rainforest then walked with our guide through a series of caves filled with splendid stalagmites and stalactites. Further on in a smaller cave we were told to turn off the head lamps we’d been given and look up. Suddenly we seemed to be gazing at a night sky glistening with stars. It was spectacular. I was instantly smitten with glow-worms!

Heading South

After my stay in the bach, I retraced part of the coast heading south and stopped in the sleepy, small town of Okarito that lies on the sea.

And two lagoons.

Racheal managed one of the few accommodations in Okarito. When I reserved two nights in one of the cabins she didn´t ask for my full name or credit card number, she just said, “See you tomorrow then.”

When I drove up, Racheal was stretched out on a beach towel reading a magazine. She was wearing a bright red sundress and enjoying the bright rays that I’d been shielding myself from.

Our conversation flowed easily. There were few tourists. The season was nearing an end. She wasn’t sure where she’d be going next. She went where the work was. In the meantime she was collecting herbs and plants for her homemade salves and enjoying the days.

Racheal suggested several hikes in the area and a boat tour of the lagoon. There was also Andris Apse, a noted nature photographer, who lived in town and had a gallery worth visiting.

The Three Mile Pack Track ascended to the Okarito Trig Lookout, descended to the Three Mile Lagoon, and looped back to a walk along the coast, about 10 kms in all. But Racheal cautioned, I had to time my return with the low-tide late that afternoon.

With time to spare I took the tour of the breathtaking lagoon seeing/hearing multitudes of birds new to my eyes and ears. Then stopped in at the gallery. The photographer was holding court with some admirers. His work taken throughout the world was large format and stunning, as were the prices for his limited edition and unique prints.

While looking around, I couldn’t help but listen in. He showed little interest in discussing travel, unless it could be steered toward all the places he’d been, or photography in general. But he shared this: after spending months composing an image in his head he takes that shot. It’s the only photograph he takes all year.

The steep walk up to the lookout offered a magnificent view of the Three Mile Lagoon and mountains in the distance. But the ascent was tougher than expected. Hikers gathered at the top exhibiting their various states of fitness. All looked relieved to be there.

I was keeping an eye on the time. Racheal hadn’t been the only one to mention the importance of the tides.

When I got to the beach, I saw why keeping track of the tide was so important  The shore was quite narrow and abutted cliffs too steep to climb. When the sea came in there would be nowhere to go.

Racheal invited me the following morning for coffee, before I continued south, and gave me a list of handwritten places she said I shouldn’t miss. I made sure I didn’t.

And, as always, the journeys from place to place were often as memorable as the destinations themselves.

to be continued…

11 January to 3 February 2020

I love trains, but a road trip practically defines freedom. It’s probably why Kerouac’s On the Road remains a popular read. And having a car means I’m not schlepping bags around.

I’d hoped to drive around the entire coast of Tasmania–it’s about the size of Switzerland. However, those plans were quickly thwarted. The south-west, now national parks, is remote and largely inaccessible, except by plane or adventurous multi-day hiking. Fortunately there’s still plenty of coast to explore.

Instead of a guidebook I followed suggestions online and from people I met along the way. I opted to ignore some too. I was cautioned not to go west where the land becomes increasingly “rough and isolated”. This meant roads are unpaved and flat tires are fairly common. I weighed the risks and figured after driving around Namibia, it couldn’t be that bad. Besides, I was seeking the roads less-traveled.

When a shop owner advised me not to miss “The Wall” on my way to Queenstown, fortunately I listened. The extraordinary relief sculpture, 3-meters high and 100-meters long carved in wood, is the creation of one man, Greg Duncan. The unfinished work, housed in a custom built structure, depicts the Tasmanian pioneers, their toil, implements, and livestock. The figures look as if they are pausing, before taking their next breath. (Sorry, the taking of photos was prohibited.)

The work is carved on the precious and now protected Huon Pine. I’d learn in the coming weeks a lot about this “green gold,” the role it played in the country’s boating industry, and the hardships endured in its logging.

Enticing detours were marked along the way and resisting them was difficult. The Nelson Falls was amidst a beautiful thick forest.

Driving on winding roads through open fields, passing the occasional men and women on horseback, then coming into Queenstown with its 19th c wooden buildings felt like a trip back to America’s wild west.

I’d spoken to Ralph the day before when seeking accommodations and met him, and Max, at the door of the Central Hotel Zeehan. As Ralph welcomed me in Max demanded my attention. It’s difficult to ignore a slobbering 130lb Rottweiler nuzzling you. Max was all love and no bite, but I was glad to have some tissues on hand.

Ralph and his wife were settling into retirement when on a whim they decided to buy the hotel. It was quite a project for a couple with physical ailments and a limited budget, but while Ralph gave me a tour of the rambling building, it seemed he’d found his fountain of youth.

They’d only managed to restore a few rooms thus far and I slept in one of them. The wallpaper, lamps, and bed frame suited the old building. I was honored to be their first paying guest.

Generally I seek local color and the wonder in the commonplace, but that’s not to say I steer clear of tourist attractions. I wasn’t going to miss a steam train trip . My fellow passengers and I left Queenstown in the morning after finding our places in the recreated Victorian Era carriages. We spent the next four hours chugging toward Strahan and back, listening to our enthusiastic young guide/conductor wearing an appropriate costume, and learning about the invention of the Abt rack and pinion system. We had this engineering marvel to thank for getting the train, and us, up the steep terrain. We had a try at panning for gold where one of us was destined to find a previously planted nugget. (A young boy gave a joyous whoop when he found it).

We also learned about the region’s history.

Tales included that of a family starting a dairy farm in a rainforest, and those seeking gold despite extreme conditions. Passing through the dense rainforest Werner Herzog’s film Fitzcarraldo came to mind. The tour aptly showcased the indomitable human spirit.

The next day I headed to Strahan, this time by car. The route was short-in-distance, but long-in-time. The train I’d taken had been the only connection between Queenstown and Strahan for years, and remained the main means of transport through the 1960’s. The steep terrain and forty-two bridges needed for the railway had discouraged the construction of any roads. However, the road used today managed to be built without a single bridge–avoiding all the rivers and hills. It’s been described as “a snake on steroids.”

Bumpy, the owner of the Strahan Backpacker Hostel, upon arrival welcomed me home, and despite introducing myself, he called me Miss New York. I called him Sir. It ruffled his feathers. I hadn’t meant to. He’d grown up in Strahan and had, decades before, been a professional athlete. His weathered face suggested some hard living, a life outdoors, or both. He’d traveled the world and returned home not long ago. He didn’t say what he’d been doing those years, nor how he’d acquired his nickname. I gathered quickly, despite his gift for gab, personal details were personal.

Bumpy liked to joke, but when he got serious he revealed a rough edge. Apparently it wasn’t too rough. Profuse thank you’s for his kindness and guidance from travelers were penned, painted, and penciled all over the expansive kitchen and dining room walls.

He booked for me, with a discount, the “must do” river cruise the next day. I showed up for the tour, but my reservation couldn’t be found–until I thought of asking for it under the name “Miss New York.”

Similar to the train trip the cruise was packed with festive tourists, lots of historical information, and beautiful scenery.

It was a very pleasant day, but I was ready to head back to the roads less-traveled. I drove on to Corinna.

Corinna, once a thriving gold mining town, is now a remote destination surrounded by rainforest. Sitting on the porch of the Tarkine Hotel with a cold drink is prime entertainment. And if you are lucky you might spot a shy and elusive platypus while hiking or kayaking. I’m pretty sure I saw one swimming in the river–at least I’d like to think so.

It’s the kind of place people go for solitude, nature, and silence. But Patrick, a shy and gentle soul, living and working there the past 18 months takes solo bushwalks as often as possible to “get away from all the people, traffic, and noise.”

I asked Patrick for hiking suggestions and he kindly obliged. On the second day he thought to add a gentle warning about the poisonous snakes in the area. It was mating season and the snakes could be aggressive. It was best to walk with a stick and make noise so as not to startle them. I heeded his advise and went on my hikes fairly confidently. Besides, I was never venturing that far, and at worst assumed the hotel kept an ample supply of snake bite antidote on hand. Out of curiosity I inquired later–they don’t.

I hadn’t been following the news much, but seeing a grey and hazy sky on my way from Strahan to Corinna reminded me of the dire events elsewhere. Tasmania had mostly been spared from the forest fires, but the smoke was blowing in from the mainland.

Leaving Corinna, I took the gravel road further west. It was rough in a few places, but nothing too bad and I didn’t get any flat tires. With little traffic I could take my time and enjoy the view.

I classified the drivers I saw into two groups: the “holiday-makers” and the “cowboys”. The holiday-makers drove in RVs or cars packed with families and pets. They generally adhered to the rules of the road. The cowboys, often in pick-up trucks, drove with disconcerting abandon. (Sadly, despite the signs reminding drivers to use caution, particularly at dusk and in the evenings, I’d never seen so many roadkills.)

I’d thought of staying in Arthur River, a few hours away, but when I got there the small tourist town looked rather sad and forlorn–the way tourist towns off-season often do.

The next town wasn’t far, and getting hungry, I pulled into the Marrawah Tavern for something to eat. Besides a grocery store/gas station, it was the only place within miles amidst acres of farm land and a few homes. The tavern seemed large enough to hold the entire town’s population, and then some. It was empty except for a family and lone employee.

After digging into a hearty platter of fish and chips, I asked the employee if he knew where I might stay the night. One phone call led to another and soon I was driving up to a lovely lone cottage with a stunning view and short walk to the sea. It was only available that one night, but I enjoyed a walk along the wide beach and watching a trio of wind-surfers defying gravity in the powerful winds. That evening, I watched a DVD of Hitchcock’s “The Trouble with Harry” and Shirley MacLaine’s star-making film debut.

The town of Stanley, with its charming colonial buildings, and a colony of penguins (which I failed to see) was my next stop. I stayed a few days exploring the area and tackling “The Nut.”

A visit to the nearby Highland Historic Site was another lesson in the 1800’s fledging region’s economy based on wool and lumber, and the dependency on convicts’ labor.

Next destination: Cradle Mountain. Getting there I got lost on a winding road in the rain and happened upon the Wilmot Historic Museum. I couldn’t resist a visit.

While admiring the collection of household goods, photos, clothing, tools, and what-nots of the past, the curator/town resident shared tales of her family. They’d come as prisoners from Ireland convicted of petty crimes. According to family legend, one relative was so desperate during the Potato Famine, she’d stolen a loaf of bread just to get away.

By the time I got back to my car the sky had cleared. I was soon on the correct route.

The expansive Cradle Mountain–Lake St. Clair National Park is a gem. It offers excellent hiking trails that can be completed in minutes or days, all with stunning views. Despite unfavorable forecasts, I managed to take some wonderful walks–often with no one in sight.

My three nights in a cozy cabin, warmed with a wood burning stove, within walking distance of the park, was one of my trip’s many highlights

It was time to head back to the coast, this time in the east, and toward the famed Bay of Fires. It’s known for its white sand beaches, crystal clear waters, and striking orange lichen-covered granite boulders. The boulders were not, as I’d thought an inspiration for its name. Apparently that came from a British explorer in 1773 who’d seen fires on the beaches lit by the island’s first residents who called it Larapuna.

There are very few homes built on the Bay of Fires. Fortunately, I was able to book one of them for two nights. Unfortunately, upon arrival, a bee, clearly distressed to find itself inside my shirt, and lacking the wherewithal to exit the way it came in, showed its displeasure by stinging me not once, but thrice. My reaction, besides the expected vocal one, was not serious, but it was painful. In any case, recuperating from the discomfort was a perfect excuse to laze about, take walks along the shore, and gaze at the sea during my brief, but luscious stay.

Fully rested and restored, I followed the coast south to the Chain of Lagoons noted for its beauty and proximity to the Freycinet National Park.

Lately when I book accommodations I choose a place of my own, but given the excellent reviews I was persuaded to rent a private room in Chris’s home, right smack in the middle of the Chain of Lagoons. It was a wise decision.

Chris lives on an extraordinary property, in a beautiful home, practically surrounded by the sea. She and I immediately fell into sharing tales of our lives, love of travel, and hiking (her solo hikes–both day and overnight(s)–were far longer and more adventurous than mine). Already in her sixties, or so, I was surprised to learn she’d only started hiking a few years ago.

Her front porch was ideal for enjoying the antics of the wallabies in semi-residence, our conversations, cups of tea, and the view . My three nights there went all too quickly.

She also possessed a fine collection of quotes and clippings.

And the Freycinet National Park did not disappoint. It offers a multitude of stunning hikes through forest and along the coast. Its most popular is 11 kms long and more than 1,000 steps, all up, to the Wineglass Bay lookout.

Saying goodbye to Chris felt like parting a dear friend.

I’ve spent blissful hours in major museums getting lost amid priceless art and objects. However, local museums, often just a few rooms, rarely with anything famous, are like invitations into someone’s fascinating home–no glass, ropes, nor barriers. They’ve provided me with comparable joy and awe.

And the staff (usually one person) are generally charming, entertaining, happily sharing tales, and displaying a contagious passion for their collections.

The Bicheno Motorcycle Museum was a rare exception. But the visit was nonetheless interesting. (The only conversation my visit elicited was a request from an elderly woman for the entrance fee. She appeared largely disinterested with my presence. To be fair, it was her son’s collection and he was unfortunately elsewhere.) Seeing the mechanical evolution of these machines, the aesthetics of their design, and assorted memorabilia was quite satisfying.

I was nearing the end of my trip in Tasmania. One of the last places I hoped to visit in Tasmania was Maria Island. I booked a home in Tribuanna, a short ferry ride away.

The risk of forest fires throughout Australia was still the primary concern and main news. The Parks Department was considering closing off Maria Island to the public because of the lack of rain and high temperatures. I made plans to go the very next day.

It was on the ferry to the island that I first heard of the coronavirus. It was the peak of a very lucrative season for the crew, who were also lobster(known locally as crayfish) fishermen. The crayfish are a popular delicacy for the Chinese celebrating their new year. Suddenly, China halted the trade due to this new virus and the crew were offering the crayfish to the passengers at the drastically reduced price of A$25/lb. It was a tremendous economic hit for the locals. I empathized with their plight. But the coronavirus seemed too far away to think about it much nor to affect me on any personal level.

Visiting the ruins of the Maria Island penal colony, even amidst its beautiful coast and sea cliffs, was sobering. It is difficult to remain unaffected by a site of so much suffering.

My flight to New Zealand was in four days. I hadn’t yet decided what I would be doing before my departure.

One of Tasmania’s most famous tourist destinations is Port Arthur, another penal colony of particular notoriety. Given its disturbing past, I hesitated to go. However, the restored site with various walking tours and its 1830 restaurant receive rave reviews.

I decided to balance the painful history of Port Arthur with Tasman Peninsula’s natural wonders.

Australia is taking steps to recognize its past injustices, particularly land taken from the people who’d lived on it for thousands of years. The introductory tour I took at Port Arthur began with a familiar, albeit perfunctory, statement to that effect. However, the impression that the Europeans came to Port Arthur long after the original residents had left of their own accord seemed intended. Delving a bit deeper it appeared that this was not so. I asked another guide for clarification and he told me, with some hesitation, that this was a subject he was not at liberty to discuss.

Port Arthur is fascinating and disturbing. The incongruously beautiful grounds contrast sharply with its history of pain, hardship, and suffering.

Despite the many hours I’d spent there, l realised at closing I still hadn’t managed to see everything.

My accommodation, a lovely cottage at the Stewart Bay Lodge with water view, was walking distance away. Staying so close was a good excuse to dine at the sleek 1830 restaurant and stay for a night tour.

The now abundant crayfish was offered as a special that evening–probably for many other evenings too. It was a splurge, but I couldn’t resist.  After enjoying some oysters and sipping a glass of wine, an entire two-pound lobster was graciously placed before me with assorted accoutrements. I hadn’t expected the crayfish to be so enormous, nor to be such an extraordinarily succulent treat. It was devoured and I enjoyed every bite.

Afterwards, I went on the supposedly “terrifying” ghost tour which was amusing, but hardly lived up to its hype. However, I did opt to walk home afterwards, in the dark, on the forest path with only my headlamp to guide me. As I ventured off, the guide warned me of the wild animals I´d likely encounter. I think it was more to spook me than anything else, but initially the warning had its desired effect. My senses seemed on high alert.

And then I listened to the wind blowing through the leaves and the gentle sound of my footfall on the path. The warmth of the day was gone, but the night air was comfortably crisp, clean, and fresh. I did hear a few animals scurry as I approached, but none I feared. I embraced the solitude. It was afterall a privilege, if only a short while, to be there.

I returned to Port Arthur the following day to see the places I’d missed. Once again I spent hours walking around. There was so much to take in. The landscaped gardens, antiques, artifacts, and dwellings all told stories of the past.

And then I wandered into a small area I hadn’t noticed before, the Port Arthur Memorial Garden. It was built to commemorate the victims of the tragic 1996 massacre.

My heart ached for the loss of all those innocent lives. I took a seat in silence and cried. The tears released the emotions I’d managed to keep at bay the last few days.

Emerging from the garden and thoughts of its past I focused on the promise of the present instead.

The next morning was nearly my last. After speaking to Cass, the lovely and knowledgeable receptionist, I followed her advice and went to Cape Huay for a hike. However, after walking an hour, I almost turned back. The skies suddenly turned menacing and I wasn’t equipped. Fortunately just then I met a couple from Toronto, who confidently said the forecast predicted sunshine. I decided to continue. They were right.

Cass also suggested the Pennicott boat tour. It not only provided a different perspective of Bruny Island,

but fabulous encounters with seals, albatross, and dolphins.

The Tessellated Pavement, is an unusual geological formation, but notably less exciting than the boat ride and dolphins. However, the drive and walk getting there was lovely.

Before I knew it, I was saying goodbye to Tasmania. But not before stopping at a lavander farm and indulging on lavender ice cream.

to be continued…

 

25 December 2019  to  11 January 2020

I arrived in Sydney, after spending another week back in Tokyo, on Christmas day. It was my first time on the continent and I was immediately struck by how friendly everyone was–even the security personnel at the airport.

In my neighborhood, Bondi, most shops were closed except for a local grocer. I stocked up on essentials and their home-baked Lebanese bread.

Unlike the cold December holidays I was accustomed to, the Southern Hemisphere offered a very different experience.

Seeking respite from the heat, I went for a swim in the Bondi Icebergs Pool, a short walk from where I was staying. The name was apt. I managed some laps before craving the warmth of the sun.

The majority of the town’s population seemed to be bare-chested men and bikini-topped women, most were muscular and tattooed. Strolling along or sitting at cafes made eavesdropping unavoidable–after months in Japan, it seemed my ears were especially attuned to the English language. The gym was a popular subject of conversation. I wasn’t surprised.

I sought out one of my favorite urban destinations and strolled through the Royal Botanic Garden. It was a perfect place to wander and get lost, more figuratively than literally.

The huge trees generously provided shade, flowers adorned the grounds with vibrant colors, and the ponds teemed with entertaining birds of unfamiliar species.

The extensive ferry system offered transportation to undiscovered places, refreshing breezes, and scenic voyages. In Manly, a suburb, I wandered into an excellent pizzeria and got some great local tips from the couple sitting next to me. I spent the next few days following their suggestions. This included the Vaucluse House, a 19th-century mansion surrounded by its original gardens, wooded grounds, and beautiful outdoor cafe. They served a decadent “high tea”, but I opted for a lunch of fresh vegetables from their garden, fruit, and an array of cheese and spreads instead. No regrets, it was delicious.

Getting around Sydney was easy except for the unexpected and very steep hills, particularly near the coast. The buses accepted direct payment by credit card. I rarely found navigating public transportation elsewhere as straight forward. And of course the common language, for the most part, helped. (However, asking in a restaurant for a napkin, which in Australia, is a diaper can get you a funny look.)

While people were celebrating the holidays, it was impossible to ignore the ever increasing forest fires raging in many parts of the country. The toll, both physical and emotional, was devastating. The smoke blew toward Sydney and its normally crystalline blue sky wore an eerie orange hue.

Cancelling the New Year’s celebration was proposed, but whether the decision was swayed because of finances or morale it went ahead as scheduled. I bought a ticket to see the new year unfold in the harbor.

The spectacle did not disappoint.

The Harbor Hoopla was a family-friendly event with old-fashioned games and activities. I decided to have my palm read. I sat down in front of a woman wearing numerous bangles and a long dress loosely draped on her ample body. She took my hand in hers and seriously examined it. I realised my foreign accent, appearance, and callous-free hand already spoke volumes. After a moment she told me with an appropriate aire of mystery that I would be “travelling north.” Since most destinations on the entire planet are north of Sydney, her demonstration of clairvoyance was less than astounding, but the moment was nonetheless entertaining (I’ll note here that in the weeks ahead I ended up, despite the odds, traveling south, and then south again).

The night was festive. I enjoyed various conversations and as always at midnight made a wish for the well-being of my loved ones. And peace on earth (It can’t hurt).

2020 did not begin with promise. The wildfires continued to rage. I regrettably cancelled traveling to Kangaroo Island and the Blue Mountains. Both were to be highlights of my trip. But, like so many others, I compensated the loss of their revenue with donations.

I’d been in Sydney a week and originally planned on staying two however, the smoke from the wildfires continued to travel toward the city. The summer heat made the air particularly oppressive. I cut my time short and went to Melbourne.

Perhaps those in the know will completely disagree, but I felt that Sydney was Australia’s equivalent to Los Angeles (I was only there once and it was a short visit) and Melbourne, New York. The buffed-up people in skimpy beachwear were noticeably absent and in their place were fully clothed compatriots–it was considerably cooler and wetter–with physiques of all varieties who showed a penchant for books rather than gym bags. At least this is the impression that lingers in my mind.

I would gladly return to Melbourne for a longer stay.

With my travel plans upended, I investigated my options.

I’m often drawn to places merely by their name. Tasmania intrigued me since I’d first heard of it as a kid watching the Looney Tunes character on Saturday mornings. It also offered cooler climes than most of Australia and notable natural beauty.  And I’d read an article in the New Yorker back in 2013 about a fascinating, if controversial/eccentric, multi-millionaire Tasmanian gambler, David Walsh who founded MONA (the Museum of Old and New Art). It sounded intriguing and added to the appeal.

I flew into Hobart, Tasmania’s capital and rented an apartment for five nights. It came with a mountain view of the Wellington Range in the distance and a robust tree filled with songbirds just outside my window.

A stroll to the downtown area brought me to the door of the Tasmanian Aboriginal Center. Inside I met Luana who graciously offered me, upon request, a brief overview of the island and summary of its history.

Not unlike elsewhere, the indigenous population was decimated by gross injustice and disease brought by the Europeans. The brutalities suffered by the women explained Luana’s pale skin.

I was introduced to T, a beautiful volunteer in her early twenties. We took a walk down to the port, as she pushed her bike beside her, stopping along the way to admire the flowers. We quickly opened up, as one can with a stranger, and spoke of family, gratitude, travel, and how she’d managed to find a better path than the one she’d been on–veering towards suicide . She was now working with teenagers at the center. Her positive philosophy, precocious wisdom, and palpable fortitude was undoubtedly an extraordinary asset to the community.

I started making plans for a road trip around Tasmania and did some exploring closer to home before I set off.

I saved my visit to MONA for my final day in Hobart. Although access to the museum is possible by car, I thought the ferry would be nicer.

Most of the museum is underground.  After paying admission, Tasmanian residents and anyone under 18 enter for free, I was given an i Pod to help me navigate the galleries, get on a virtual line for the more popular exhibitions, and obtain information on the artwork–there isn’t any posted on the walls.

I found the technology off-putting and the dark galleries gloomy (probably intentional), but managed to adjust to both while exploring the immense space, varied works, and exhibitions (Testosterone seemed to be oozing from the walls).

I took a break for lunch, happy to get outside, and wandered the grounds which lies within Walsh’s Moorila winery. There are plenty of sculptures and structures to marvel at. Continuing my visit with the works of James Turrel, his familiar works were appreciated anew.

Several of the special exhibitions required the signing of a waiver, including one of Turrell’s latest creations. It stated that one did not suffer from epilepsy, claustrophobia, and was not drunk or on drugs. Dante’s The Divine Comedy a la Alfredo Jaar required wearing a harness attached to a sturdy bar so one did not descend into, well, hell of course. The floor did open up to a whirling, turbulent abyss, but unless you lied about being under the influence, and you had super-human strength, you had nothing to fear.

Despite all the works that were meant to dazzle and amaze, I was most impressed with a fifteen-minute documentary by Yuri Ancarani called “Il Capo” filmed in an Italian quarry. There is no dialogue, voice-over, or music. There are no special effects and no waiver was needed to watch it. One hears and sees heavy loaders used to cut and move mammoth slabs of marble in the Apuan Alps. The camera, often in close-up, follows the hands of one man “il capo.”  He is in essence the eyes and conductor, if not the driver, of these mighty machines. His subtle movements, like that of a brilliant maestro coaxing an orchestra, are poetic, exquisitely delicate, and profoundly beautiful.

The suggested visiting time at MONA is about three hours. I’d arrived when the museum opened and found myself running, seven hours later, to catch the last ferry back before closing.

to be continued…

 

I started writing this post many months ago when the word pandemic was not yet uttered throughout the globe. And the murder of George Floyd, and too many others, had not yet ignited the fight and protests for justice.

The cataclysmic news of these events, the devastating wildfires, and the political arena has consumed me. Focusing on anything else has been nearly impossible and any attempts at writing has seemed frivolous.

It remains difficult. News is still bleak, but there are signs of promise too: a flower on a window sill, a tree standing strong and tall, a field that catches the suns rays and rain too, the sea’s endless motion, the moon’s wondrous phases, and the song of a bird to name a few.

In this spirit I’ve decided to try and resume my writing. I hope my words and images bring you some joy and peace during these difficult times and this finds you and your loved ones well and safe.

Sandra @startsolo

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28 November to 24 December, 2019

In searching online for my next destination, after the Seto Islands, Okinawa kept on coming up. I associated it with war, an American Army base, and little else, but the images of beautiful secluded beaches, a unique culture, and delicious cuisine enticed me to go.

Getting there meant catching a flight from Okayama. It gave me a chance to wander the city and enjoy the autumn colors at their peak.

Okinawa:

I’d rented a car and traveled around Okinawa’s main island. There were some lovely places, but I was seeking somewhere more off the beaten track. I took a flight to Ishigaki Island hoping to find it there.

Ishigaki Island:

Ishigaki, at first glance, was not the undiscovered paradise I’d hoped for. The port town was touristy and the busy streets were lined with fastfood establishments. The small house I’d rented was on a drab street of low-lying commercial buildings crowded together with little charm. However, my bedroom was in the back, off the street, and abutting lush undeveloped land. As I lie in my bed a chorus of frogs started singing. I couldn’t have hoped for a better lullaby.

Touring the island along the back roads, I found the locals’ surfing spot and stayed awhile to watch a small group of men attempt to ride the waves with varying success. Another road took me to a lighthouse where the winds were so strong I struggled to reach it, but then a calm came as if a magical spell had been cast to reward me for my tenacity.

There were beautiful beaches and the expansive Banna Park to enjoy some birding and hiking, but the nearby Iriomote Island was more remote and less developed. I planned a stay and took a ferry over.

Irimote Island:

On the far side of the island is the tiny village of Funauki accessible only by boat. I booked a small home there for five days.

On the way I stopped for a visit to Yubu Island.

Yakushima:

Despite Yakushima’s reputation for raining “366 days a year”, this understandably spectacular, verdant island offered me a few chances to see it under clear skies.

to be continued…